


Apologia

by Memoriam



Series: Opposition [2]
Category: Subspecies
Genre: F/M, Horror, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-20
Updated: 2009-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something else that might have happened, but probably didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologia

How great a crime could the death of a witch be, when set beside kinslaying?

The comparison brought a grim smile to his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scrubbing the tracks of the blood he'd been unable to drink away. Most of it had coursed into the dirt beneath their feet; more seeped from her throat even now, carrying the last threads of her life away with it. Her fingers twitched feebly, then were still. He watched her carefully, forced to grudgingly admire her tenacity; he would not have expected a young, strong woman to be able to cling so fiercely to what little existence remained to her. Not with such a great, gaping rent in her throat.

Easing closer, he sank to one knee. Her eyes had already glazed over, glassy even in the shadows of the mask that shrouded her features; her breathing was so shallow as to be almost imperceptible. A human would have given her up for dead, but he knew better. There was a certain fluidity that only the quick possessed, a kind of spastic animation that fled her form, even as he reached for her. He wove his long, bony fingers through the rawhide thongs that fastened the mask beneath her chin, and deftly untied them.

With a gentleness that hardly seemed possible in the wake of the savagery with which he'd attacked her, he slipped a hand beneath her shoulders, lifting her slightly as he slipped the mask free. Her face was impossibly old, for a mortal's; seamed with wrinkles and spotted with age, she might have been sixty or ninety, bearing the backbreaking weight of the years with iron fortitude. Her mouth puckered slightly as a fresh gout of blood spurted from her neck. He bent his head to receive her curse, but nothing issued from her lips but a soft puff of air; and with that, she was no more.

Encouraging.

Even so, he was not without a certain uneasy regret as he slipped a hand beneath her head. The peril and perversity of raising a hand against a witch had long been ingrained in him; even a weak one was rarely worth the trouble. Though it seemed her place amongst her villagers had been the product of tradition, rather than breeding; nothing in her scent, nor the taste of her blood, had marked her as anything other than a sick old woman. Still, old prejudices had informed his actions; Stefan had surely been able to identify her just as easily, and he could not tolerate any further complications.

With a short, sharp, jerk, he ensured that there would be none from this quarter. Her skull parted from her spine with a satisfying pop; the fibrous mass of her spine shredded apart from itself with only a little more effort. He debated severing her head entirely, but decided against it with a wry smile; he would not dream of depriving the peasants of the fun of doing it themselves, not on this night of all nights. This woman would not rise again.

Raising his head, he surveyed the gathered assemblage through the screen of the trees; he had allowed himself to become too immersed in her death. Yet as distracted as they were by their revelry, none seemed to have so much as taken notice of her absence, let alone begun to wonder what had become of her. Not that it would matter if they came upon her remains, once he had removed himself; it would add an extra touch of festivity to their proceedings.

Climbing to his feet, he hooked his fingers beneath the edge of the mask, and held it out before him to admire it; the hook-nosed visage regarded him blankly, the tattered ribbons and knotted rags that composed its hair moving lightly against its green leather skin in the breeze. His lips curled in amusement; all in all, not a terrible likeness, given how many nights had passed since its model had last strode these fields. She would have undoubtedly found it charming. His mouth twisted even further as he bowed his head, reverentially slipping it on.

He forced himself to scent the air, for a moment almost overwhelmed by the sour tang of the woman's breath: the smoke of the bonfire, too many unwashed bodies too close to one another, manure, freshly turned earth, rain in the offing... and her, the intoxicating shock of it almost as powerful as his first encounter with it. But so faint; had she come and gone, or was she merely smothered beneath the miasma of the festival? So hard to guess.

His eyes scanned the crowd, the darkness no barrier to him, but discovered nothing. He was tempted to sift through their minds fore surety, but the idea made him recoil queasily. He had grown less and less able to tolerate it as the nights had lengthened, and the eerie fire of the Bloodstone seemed only to have intensified his disdain; to have their base, animal thoughts skittering against his mind, their transient urges like the slither of insects... no. Stefan was certainly not present; that he would have known in the marrow of his bones. There was time.

St. George's Eve had always held a great deal of nostalgia for him.

Folding his arms behind his back, he fisted his hands loosely, seeking to hide his curved talons and extra phalanges as best he could in the hollows of his palms, and began to pace the fringe of the gathering. Even masked, he dared not approach too closely; revelers, seeing that visage, might come seeking benedictions he was in no way inclined to grant.

She was here. She had to be.

He inhaled shallowly, letting the air roll across the back of his tongue, sifting carefully for traces of her unmistakable essence. He tried to remind himself that he had already been tricked once, but it was hard to keep at the forefront of his thoughts while that tantalizing specter indicated that she was so _close_... He exhaled roughly, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts. It didn't matter; he would have to deal with both of them, in time.

The sudden, frenetic thrumming of the strings was enough to give even him a moment's pause.

The musicians had thus far proved nothing more than a helpful bit of distraction, their enthusiastic racket more than enough noise to screen what little sound he had made; that done, he found his tolerance for their flailing attempt at haiducesti plummeting by the second. Yet for one shining second, their ineptitude somehow transcended itself, leaving him mesmerized. The illusion dissipated just as quickly as it had coalesced, but he found himself eyeing the rude knot of musicians gathered by the bonfire with a somewhat more appraising eye; one of them was playing a cobza that looked as if it might have been new when he himself was young.

Which, he supposed, was not entirely out of the question. Regarding the gathered revelers gave him a strange, wistful feeling, an unsettling conflation of then and now. So very little had changed. The clothes were less shabby, the hair less unkempt; but if one subtracted the great, puffy overgarments from the gathering, there would be little to separate this feast from the countless others he had witnessed over the course of his long life. Stefan undoubtedly found the continuity of it soothing, but his lip curled in disdain. Endless nights had passed since he had first stood beneath these trees to watch them, yet they still grubbed in the dirt, content with the same rough lives a legion of their forebears had led, an identical procession of serfdom, little better than their own cattle.

Nor could these latter-day specimens even manage to get their own ceremonies correct. The horse had been black. Fools.

As he shook himself free of his maundering, he realized that he was not the only one who watched, rather than worshiped. She too skirted the edge of the gathering, though she made no attempt to hide; not that the bright blue of her swollen coat would have allowed her to if she had. Long blonde hair snaked down her back in a ponytail as she darted from side to side. He thought at first that she held a mask to her face, but realized that it was some sort of field glass when she lowered it and began to adjust it. He paused in his movement, watching curiously as she lifted it once more; surely she couldn't need it to see with, but he could not fathom what else its purpose might be. Yet she seemed dedicated to its use, pausing every so often to raise her face as if to make sure that what she saw reconciled with what the glass showed her.

Curious. And potentially troublesome.

Disappointing, as well, for he recognized the narrow jaw, the soft, small mouth, the upturned nose that the brief lowerings of the glass revealed: the peasant. Broad shouldered and broader hipped, she was as stolid as the dirt upon which she stood, and only slightly less common; had it not been for her unusual behavior, he might never had picked her out from among her gathered fellows. But she had been part of the trio that had so captivated him, and if not its source, carried at least some ghost of that delectable, compelling aura.

He moved closer with a measured tread, trying to divine something of her essence, to discover what it was that had placed her within his field of interest. She was healthy enough, slender, well-built; she had been clever enough to keep herself from starving, as so many of her ancestors had failed to do. She watched the proceedings with keen attentiveness, her gaze sharp and clear as she wielded her glass; she too must be one of the scholars, then, and not simply an escort. The idea of a village girl crossing the sea was scarcely comprehensible; there must be something more to her that his long acquaintance with her ilk was not permitting him to see.

Letting his mouth gape, he drew a long, slow breath, trying to determine whether she truly was the source of the scent, but it proved impossible; burning wood, too many bodies too close to one another, and the lingering remnants of the witch's sour breath fouled his perception. Suddenly frustrated beyond almost all measure—he did not care for the idea of being yoked to such a one as she; how could one who had groveled in mud ever learn to soar?—he reached up and hooked his thumbs beneath the lip of the mask. Even his temper could not goad him into treating it with anything less than respect; he carefully slipped it over his head, glad for the feel of the air against his face once more. He grinned, giving himself over to the absurdity of finding himself in such a situation once again; he had never been a great believer in fate, but coincidences could prove entertaining.

None of it mattered. All of it would come out as it needed to. His father had been the last one who might truly have opposed him; now it was simply a matter of allowing things to happen as they would. Of course, he would rather have been reposing in the company of the girl who lay behind him in the gatehouse, who was perhaps even now breathing her last... but it had been only a minor misunderstanding, an easy error to have made, and had served to whet his appetite for the rest of the evening.

She was looking directly at him.

It took him scarcely a second to register her furrowed brow, her dismay, her confusion; between one eyeblink and the next he was gone from her view, a shadow stretching across the trampled meadow that cursed itself for an inattentive fool. She looked down at the field glass in her hands as if it had betrayed her, glancing between it and the space ahead of her as he slithered along the ground towards her and slid against the small monument behind her.

_Idiocy; _he was grinding his teeth so hard they ached even as he resolved once more into corporeal form. He had been so lost in thoughts of her and his previous conquest that he had exposed himself, walking out into the crowd as if the centuries since the Vladislas had held this land as an honest fiefdom had never passed. Tonight of all nights, no harm may have been done, but if anyone besides her had seen him—he crouched, making certain he was shielded behind the stone, listening carefully for any sounds of alarm, and was gratified that the celebration seemed to continue unabated. He flexed his fingers, feeling eaten alive by inchoate anger; it had been a devastatingly foolish thing to do. The witch's body would not remain undiscovered for long; if one of the serfs connected that with a brief, spectral figure glimpsed from the corner of their eye...

He had to act quickly.

Shifting his balance, he peered over the edge of the stone, watching the girl for any sign of unease. She still stood uneasily, scanning the crowd before her, but did not stand poised to flee, nor did she move closer to the gathering. His lips thinned with nasty amusement; they did so much of his work for him by convincing themselves that he could not exist. Even as he watched, she began to adjust her glass once more, though he noted she did not quite dare devote her whole attention to it.

Still, there was little time to waste, nor were there many ways to waste it. Seeing that she had strayed to the edge of the herd on her own, he had given little thought to how best to separate her from her fellows; she was far enough away to be vulnerable, but he was far too close to be safe. He could take her here, but when her body was discovered along with the witch's, there would be nothing that could save her from dismemberment unless he carried her off... and with Otto prowling during the daytime, he was loath to rely on simply secreting her. But she had already seen him, and been alarmed; there was little chance he could entice her to follow him deeper into the cemetery by allowing her half-seen glimpses of himself. He frowned, turning the situation over in his mind as quickly as he could; it seemed that there was nothing for it but something he had not dared for decades.

The decision made, he acted quickly. Hoisting himself up the stone, he uttered as gutturally vicious a snarl as he could muster as he reached over and clamped his hands over her shoulders, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. She squealed in fear but, as he had hoped, was frozen by her panic. He tightened his grip as much as he could, his talons digging into the soft thickness of her coat, and before she could regain her composure enough to struggle, he _dragged _her into the shadows with him.

The heft, the mass, the sheer, unaccustomed _weight _of her were almost enough to tear her from his grasp, and it took every ounce of sorcerous strength he possessed to retain his grip on her; no mortal had ever been meant to travel this way, and he had never learned exactly what became of those he lost hold of. The simple, subtle force of her heartbeat hauled at him like an anchor; he dared not keep her this way any longer than absolutely necessary, but it seemed he could move little more quickly than a crawl. He refused to let the worry of it distract him, lest it steal the immense focus such a feat as this required of him; concentrating solely on keeping his essence knotted around hers, he sped for the castle as best as he could.

It was with no small relief that he sieved through the familiar cracks around the massive oaken doors that fronted the great hall, pulling her after him like the tail of a kite. Quite familiar with the spectacular results that could attend untoward haste in that regard, he forced himself to wait just long enough to ensure she had made it all the way through before materializing.

She screamed; oh, how she _screamed, _throat-shredding, ear-splitting peals of horror and torment. He was so startled by the immediacy of her lament that he would have been concerned for her sanity, had she not immediately begun to struggle against his grip on her shoulders. He was surprised by the violence with which she threw herself forward, and his claws snagged in the lining of her coat; she managed to shrug free of it with more agility than he would have credited her with. He shook himself free with an angry snarl, only just managing to lock his fingers around her wrist before she managed to escape his reach.

She shrieked again, this time a sound of pure, unbridled fury as she threw her weight against the strength of his arm, seeking to yank herself free of his grasp. She pulled hard enough that he was forced to take a step forward to preserve his balance; he jerked her backwards, hauling her into a rough embrace in an attempt to keep her still. She grunted in surprised anger, unable to catch her breath as she writhed against him in a frenzied attempt to slip herself loose. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he hoisted her into the air to deprive her of traction for her struggles; she responded by kicking backwards savagely, her heels raking his shins with sharp, tearing pain. Acting on instinct, he slammed her down once more; the impact was enough to finally quell her. Her knees buckled, his arm around around her waist the only thing keeping her from hitting the floor.

“Mother of _Christ!” _she half-shrieked, half-gasped, already scrabbling to regain her feet. He grabbed the back of her neck with his free hand and hauled her upright, shoving her ahead of him as he marched her, stumbling, further into the throne room; after that performance, he did not care to let her get too close to the doors. “I know what you are!”

“So very astute,” he growled, glad, at least, that he would not have to struggle with hysterical English. He seized her by the bicep and propelled her forward by main force as she sought to drag her heels, the sound of her struggles loud and echoing amongst the stones of the hall. Reaching the great wooden table that dominated its center, he spun her around as he shoved her against it, quickly slamming his palms down on either side of her, trapping her face to face with him.

Her face contorted with disbelief and horror as she gazed upon his visage, the shock of it enough to quiet her for a few brief moments. She blinked her eyes rapidly, as if struggling to make sense of what she saw, and then, as if the realization finally caught up with her, threw herself against the table in a futile attempt to escape. “_Strigoi!_”

“Moroi, as it happens.” He skinned his lips back from his teeth, allowing her to admire his fangs; the expression broadened into an honest grin as her expression twisted in disgust. There was a certain perverse comfort in dealing with someone who knew him for what he was; it spared him so much tedium. She shoved herself backwards once more, as if she could pass through the table with willpower alone; he simply leaned forward, keeping the distance between them close. “Who are you, and what do you do here?”

“_Get thee behind me!_” Planting her feet on the floor, she sought to clamber onto the table. He kicked her feet apart, spoiling her balance, and leaned his weight against her, trapping her hips against the edge of the table with his.

She screamed again, pounding her fists against his chest; he clamped her wrists together with one hand, using them as a lever with which to slam her back flat on the table. Spent as he was, he could not help but wonder how it would be to embrace her in such a fury; the frenzy with which she would undoubtedly resist him might make it a battle worth recounting. Yet there was no longer any doubt that she was not the one he sought; though the air practically crackled with her rage and fear, there was no hint of allure to it. “_Answer _me,” he hissed into her ear, “or I swear to you you shall regret it until the end of time.”

“I _defy _you.” Her eyes flashed with anger as she kicked at him ineffectually. “You filth! You _carcass!_”

“What are their names?”

“Too good for the rotten mouth of a creature like you! You _beast!_ Crawl back in your grave and devil good people no more!”

“My patience grows ever more tattered.”

“Heaven defend me—”

For a split second, he was unable to make sense of the warmth on his cheek.

Spit. She had spit on him.

But even that was no match for the surprise of her knee connecting with his groin.

He sagged against the table, barely managing to catch his weight on his elbow as he was overwhelmed by dumb, animal _pain. _The agony throbbed through him in a stomach turning, teeth-grinding wave; even his vision hazed gray for a brief moment. The girl wasted no time in capitalizing on her vile trick; she shoved him off of her, sending him stumbling to keep his balance. She dodged around him, but even in his extremity, he was still faster. He flung out one arm to block her way, nearly missing, but his claws managed to catch in the slippery fabric of her blouse. The thin material shredded beneath his nails as she tried to feint past him, but he managed to grab her by the wrist with his other and yanked her backwards. Her howl of dismay faded into a thick, choking gurgle as he wrenched her head to the side and plunged his fangs into her neck.

There was no thought to it, no plan, only simple reaction; he scarcely realized what he had done until he gagged, glutted as he was by his two earlier conquests. He raised his mouth from her throat, letting her body slip through his arms until her weight nearly overbalanced him. Blood gushed from the ragged tear in her flesh, spattering onto the flagstones like thick rain. She twitched feebly, the strength draining from her muscles even as her breath subsided into faint, hitching gasps, but the blood continued to pour from her long after her struggles had stilled.

Finally, the scarlet flow ebbed. He dragged her backwards, dropping her on the table to inspect his handiwork. She lolled bonelessly, her already light skin gone almost transparently pale, her chest appearing still even to his keen vision; if she was not dead yet, it was only a matter of moments. He had not precisely meant to kill her so quickly, but... he gritted his teeth as he shoved the memory of that disastrous encounter aside. The idea that a mere peasant would dare to act so... she could not be permitted to run free.

Of course, if she rose tonight, she would present him with a whole new set of difficulties.

Frowning, he considered the situation. Her death had left her fairly clean; what little blood streaked her blended in with the bright red of her blouse. If she did rise quickly... if her confusion held, as it likely would... it would not necessarily be immediately apparent what had become of her.

There was all sorts of potential in that.

But her fierce implacability had already surprised him to an uncomfortable degree; if she were to awaken clear-headed, there was little telling what sort of havoc she might wreak. Locking her away in one of the dungeons would deprive him of her usefulness as bait, but... His eye fell on the rusty iron manacles that adorned the support pillars. Hardly an elegant solution, and not the most secure of options; but with one or two of his creatures left to watch her, it ought to serve.

Gathering her wrists in his hand, he pulled her still form from the table, her body hitting the floor with a meaty thump he scarcely noticed as his plans for the evening began to consume him once more. It was ill luck that his search had become a process of elimination, but it was done now; the dark-haired girl would not be difficult to locate. He must find her; then Stefan; and then...

He bared his teeth in feral, vicious glee.


End file.
